


Lost Time, Lost Control

by clottedcreamfudge



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Biting, Bottom Derek Hale, Control, Control Issues, Eternal Sterek, First Kiss, First Time, Gay Sex, Hand & Finger Kink, Happy Ending, Healing, Healthy Relationships, Love, Love Confessions, M/M, Metaphors, Mutual Pining, POV Derek, POV Derek Hale, Pining, Sex, They definitely go on to have lots of sex and babies probably, i am the worst at tags
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-18
Updated: 2018-08-18
Packaged: 2019-06-29 09:06:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15726288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clottedcreamfudge/pseuds/clottedcreamfudge
Summary: “I don’t even know where to fucking start with that sentence, Stiles.”“Any normal, good-mannered werewolf would start by renouncing their homophobia so they can support their friend in the pursuit of pastures peen, Derek,” Stiles says primly, standing up and shaking his head forlornly. Derek rubs his hands over his face, which doesn’t help.Pastures peen, Jesus Christ.***Sometimes it’s not so bad to give someone else control.





	Lost Time, Lost Control

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aussiebee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aussiebee/gifts).



Derek used to struggle with control when he was a teenager - not in a “let the beast free, take the nearest woman as your wife and howl at the moon” kind of way, but in a “be careful when you sneeze in public because there’s a 50/50 chance your eyebrows are going to disappear” kind of way. It’s pretty normal for werewolves going through puberty, though he can’t remember now if the eyebrows thing was universal (and Derek appreciates that, to most people, that sentence would be a cause for concern).

  
There was also a brief period in his life - something he can’t help but think of as Post-Kate - that he started to lose control in a different way. He never hurt anyone, but he lost count of the number of household items he and Laura had to replace on the full moon, when not even his sister’s commanding Alpha tone could stop him from tearing their apartment to pieces. She never complained. He thinks she might have been too tired.

  
But he has a pack now, and they’re a mish-mash of shapeshifters, magical creatures, hunters and humans, but they’re a team. It’s been a long time since Derek has felt some semblance of family, and this is as close as he thinks he’s going to get; he’s surprisingly okay with that. He’s (almost) made his peace with never having a family of his own, though he can’t stop himself longing for more at 2am when he’s kept awake by his own thoughts. The pack keeps him calm, keeps him anchored; he doesn’t need his anger like he used to because there’s just so little of it left. He’s almost happy now, raging fires of guilt notwithstanding.

  
Which is why, on a barely sunny day in December, it comes as a surprise to himself and the other occupant of the room when he reflexively tightens his grip on the mug of coffee he’s holding and absolutely _decimates_ the thing. He has shards of porcelain buried so deep in his palm that he has to cut them out with his claws before they heal over. His countertops are splattered with blood, and it’s not even 9am.

  
All because of Stiles and his goddamn lack of filter.

  
The human in question is sitting on the arm of Derek’s sofa, socked feet planted firmly on the cushions (in spite of the fact that the sofa is completely empty and available for its intended purpose), legs splayed slightly in a way that shouldn’t be as tempting as it is. Stiles’ mouth is also hanging open slightly, lips darker than usual like he’s been worrying them with his teeth---

  
Yeah, Derek’s not even going to touch that one.

  
“What,” he grits out, not bothering with the formality of punctuation marks. Stiles closes and opens his mouth with a huff of breath, tongue darting out to wet his lower lip, and Derek feels a sharp tug somewhere near his navel that feels horribly like _want_ , which he ignores; he’s worryingly used to ignoring it.

  
“Did you just break the mug Scott got you for your birthday? Because he’s totally gonna be pissed if you did - it took him at least five minutes of careless internet searching to find you such a thoughtless gift. He even made sure it had free shipping for maximum effect with minimum expenditure. I know - I was there.” Stiles is now running a hand through his already mussed hair and Derek wants to growl or bite him or something equally unacceptable. He settles for sighing instead, pinching the bridge of his nose like he’s The Dad in a sitcom, wondering when he lost control of who has access to his goddamn apartment.

  
“Why are you talking to me about this?” Derek asks with more patience than he feels at this particular moment. He’s actually glad Stiles is sitting up because all of _this_ combined with his usual casual lounging would have been too much.

  
“All I said,” Stiles replies with an eyeroll (like Derek is the one being unreasonable here, the little shit), “is that I _kind of_ want to fuck a guy some time. How is this any different to me waxing rhapsodic about Lydia’s ass in leggings?” Derek snorts.

  
“First off, you’ve literally never done that because you know she’d find out somehow and kill you-” Stiles pulls a face of resigned agreement- “and second, all you talk about usually is her hair and the way she smells. Equally creepy, by the way. Also, this is the first time you’ve ever mentioned… _that_.” He waves a hand to indicate - what? Stiles’ apparent sexual flexibility? His desire to put his dick in a man that probably, depressingly, isn’t Derek? Stiles snorts derisively.

  
“Dude, I talk about this shit all the time!”

  
“You really don’t.”

  
“Last week I told you I’d been looking quite intently into the previously unplumbed depths of my sexuality!” he says, throwing both hands up in the air in a move than reveals an inch or two of pale skin and lean, shifting muscle above the waistband of his jeans; Derek is so fucked. “Literally last week, Derek! I even stopped eating Reese’s in order to tell you about this, so I remember it pretty clearly.”

Derek isn’t blushing - he’s fucking not, it’s just hot in here - but he can remember equally clearly why he wasn’t listening at the time. Stiles had managed to get soup all down his shirt front (he’d then complained that he didn’t even like soup, which had started an argument about whether or not you could hate all soup indiscriminately) and Derek had lent him one of his own, well-worn t-shirts to wear while they watched their usual Friday night film. He had done this absolutely and completely out of the good of his own heart, and not because he wanted Stiles to smell like _them_.

  
Regardless of his motives, the smell of them together was incredibly distracting and Derek was kind of hiding a semi for most of the evening; he doesn’t even remember what film they watched, let alone what words Stiles had been throwing at him through a mouthful of buttered popcorn and peanut butter.

  
(Stiles had butter on his face for at least twenty minutes, and Derek had wanted desperately to lick it off. He doesn’t even like butter on his popcorn.)

  
“I assumed you meant you’d decided to expand your interests to include women who weren’t Lydia,” he lies quickly. “You didn’t mention… the other thing.” Jesus fucking Christ, why can’t he just say it? He probably sounds about twelve years old right now - or like he has a problem with it. Which would be immensely hypocritical. And incorrect.

Stiles seems to be thinking along the same lines.

  
“Dude, do you have some kind of issue with me wanting the D?” he asks with raised eyebrows, and Derek rolls his eyes so hard he’s surprised they don’t fall out of his head.

  
“I don’t even know where to fucking start with that sentence, Stiles.”

  
“Any normal, good-mannered werewolf would start by renouncing their homophobia so they can support their friend in the pursuit of pastures peen, Derek,” Stiles says primly, standing up and shaking his head forlornly. Derek rubs his hands over his face, which doesn’t help.

  
_Pastures peen, Jesus Christ._

  
“I’m not a homophobe, Stiles,” he says, slightly muffled by his own palms. “I was raised by free-loving werewolves, not the Westboro Baptist Church.” He lets his hands fall to his sides and shrugs with his whole body, feeling suddenly very tired. “I’m not sure what kind of support you want from me, short of-” He stops himself before he can say something damning, because it’s 9 in the fucking morning on a Saturday and it’s nearly Christmas and he could do without any of the possible outcomes that could befall him if he said something stupid like _“short of presenting my ass to you right this second”_.

Stiles completely misinterprets his sudden silence.

  
“You don’t wanna be my wingman? Aw, come on - we’re friends! Buddies! Pals! You know my favourite ice cream flavours and I know the exact spot on your abdomen where you have no actual nerve endings any more because of that time with the pipe. Only friends know that shit about each other!”

Derek’s glad Stiles doesn’t clock his wince at the word ‘friends’; he isn’t sure he can explain to Stiles quite how desperately he wants to shove him into a wall and blow him for _hours_ until he _cries_ \-- so he latches onto something else instead.

  
“You’re comparing me being impaled to your ice cream preferences?” he asks with a raised eyebrow.

  
“Don’t change the subject,” Stiles says, eyes narrowed. He takes a step forward and Derek bites back on a growl. “Be my wingman or I’ll get Danny to do it.” It’s Derek’s turn to snort.

  
“Danny wouldn’t do it. He’d shake his head and walk away, like he always does when you’re being patently ridiculous.”

  
“Okay, Scott then!”

  
“These suggestions are getting worse.”

  
“ _Jackson_.” Derek gives a sigh of exasperation.

  
“Jackson would claw your face off and then I’d be put in the awkward position of supporting something Jackson’s done, which I’ve so far managed to avoid - please don’t.”

  
“I think I liked it better when you were a homophobe,” Stiles says, plonking himself down somewhat mournfully onto the sofa and throwing a hand over his eyes as he sinks into the cushions. Sometimes Derek wonders why Stiles is taking Forensic Psychology at college and not Drama. He goes for broke.

  
“Stiles, for the last time, I’m not a homophobe. Not that it’s any of your business, but I’m not straight, and I’m definitely not repressed.” Stiles’ arm slowly slides down his face and he blinks a couple of times.

  
“You’ve…” Now it’s Stiles’ turn to wave his hands around vaguely, though Derek is sure his own fingers aren’t that beautiful.

  
“Been with men? Yes, Stiles,” he replies drily. He still has absolutely no idea how this conversation started and why he hasn’t stopped it. He’s completely lost control of his life.

  
“Biblically?” Stiles asks stupidly after a moment, apparently unable to compute this complete shift in his reality. The slackness of Stiles’ mouth is distracting as hell, so Derek has to close his eyes and grit his teeth before feeling level enough to respond.

  
“I don’t remember many guys fucking in the Bible,” he grinds out without much of the intended humour behind it, and Stiles makes a strangled sort of noise from the sofa. Derek opens his eyes and looks at him, eyebrow raised, biting the inside of his cheek and tasting blood so he doesn’t say something he’ll regret, _like “but none of those guys were you so it wasn’t anything to write home about.“_

  
Stiles doesn’t say anything for a moment, but he’s looking at Derek with a new gleam in his eye that smacks of _challenge accepted_ , like he heard the unspoken addendum - and just then Derek is hit with a wave of something from Stiles’ direction that nearly knocks him on his ass. Stiles is turned on oh _Jesus_ , the already enticing warmth and spice of his scent ramped up to eleven; suddenly the room seems too small and Stiles is both too close and too far away, and Derek can barely breathe.

  
“So,” Stiles says slowly, standing up again and advancing on Derek with determination in every footstep. “I talk about wanting to maybe fuck a guy-” Derek actually closes his eyes for a second, trying desperately to think about something else. “-and you break a mug. You don’t wanna be my wingman. You profess to your own flexibility. You won’t stop staring at _my mouth_.” Derek hadn’t even realised he was doing that again and his eyes flicker guiltily back to Stiles’, whose face is now mere inches away from his own. “A guy could be forgiven for misinterpreting that.” Derek swallows. Shakes his head.

  
“You’re pretty astute. I think you’re interpreting things just fine,” he says roughly - and a split-second later Stiles has a hand twisted into the fabric of Derek’s Henley and is shoving him back into the kitchen counter, ignoring the shards of porcelain and the splatters of blood and coffee beneath their feet in favour of getting his mouth on Derek’s with the enthusiasm he usually reserves for Bestiary research and curly fries.

  
Derek makes a wounded noise - one he would’ve sworn ten seconds ago that he was incapable of making - and pushes back, getting a hand in Stiles’ hair and just _tugging_. Stiles moans and opens up under him… and then it all gets a little hazy.

  
Time seems to skip from moment to moment.

  
Stiles’ tongue, his fingers, the breathless noises he makes when Derek gets his hands beneath surprisingly strong thighs and just _lifts_ —

  
Finally wrestling back all of Stiles’ layers and marking up his throat, his chest, painting a canvas and signing it with tongue and teeth—

  
In the bedroom, both of them naked and hard and saying things they absolutely shouldn’t say this soon, even though they both mean it, god does Derek mean it—

  
Stiles opening him up with clever fingers, gabbling nonsense like he’s the one falling apart while Derek claws at his back, nails only just this side of human—

  
That feeling of fullness, completeness - the aching burn before the spark, making him gasp and clutch harder as Stiles’ hips stutter and they both curse and whine—

  
Toppling over the edge with a shout more animal than man, the dry sob that has him burying his face in the bruise-bitten skin of Stiles’ shoulder as he follows suit—

  
It’s never felt like this, it’s never - “It’s never been like this,” he pants against Stiles’ mouth, and he’s answered with a kiss so fierce he thinks they might never stop—

  
He doesn’t want it to stop.

 

***

  
  
His breathing evens out and his pulse steadies, Stiles’ heartbeat coming down from its broken, staccato rhythm to the familiar jackrabbiting beat that’s been comforting Derek for months now (years, maybe - he’s a slow mover). They breathe together, and his stupid heart jumps with something when Stiles finds his hand, entwining their fingers and letting out an almost inaudible sigh.

  
More quiet. Stiles is never quiet, never still, but right now he seems unable to follow his usual, well-established patterns. _Quip, laugh, next_.

  
So Derek talks first.

  
“Sorry I mauled you,” he says, probably sounding not at all sorry. Stiles snorts.

  
“Yeah, no you’re not. And neither am I. I’ve never been sex-mauled before - this may well be the greatest day of my life. Let me bask.” Stiles still doesn’t let go of his hand. Derek smiles and lets his eyes slip closed.

  
“Alright - I’m going to sleep. Wake me up when you want round two.” Stiles splutters and flails, immediately flipping over so that his body is half covering Derek’s, the bed creaking ominously in protest at the new development. Derek’s not sure the frame’s going to last the night.

  
“There’s a round two?” Stiles asks urgently, his eagerness translating through a spasm of want where their hands are still joined, a coiled tightness in his core that radiates out and down. Derek opens his eyes, soft smile turning easily into something simultaneously smug and predatory.

  
“Yeah, it usually comes somewhere between round one and round three,” he says easily, feeling his teeth sharpen ever so slightly at Stiles’ answering intake of breath, the air thickening again with the scent of his arousal.

  
“What about,” Stiles says slowly, eyes darting between Derek’s mouth and his eyes like he can’t choose which view is more fascinating, “after round three? What comes then?”

  
Derek knows what he’s asking.

  
“Stiles,” he says - and that name has always held such weight on his tongue, always felt right in a way he couldn’t (or didn’t want to) quantify. “Stiles - I’m in love with you. If you want to never leave this bed, I’m not going to argue with you. But maybe we can go on at least one date before I meet your dad in any official capacity?” Stiles gapes at him.

  
“You’re going to let him--” he pauses, swallows - the movement of his throat is beautiful and distracting, and Derek follows it with an unintended eye flash. “Don’t do that when I’m trying to be serious, it’s not fair,” Stiles says with a whine. Derek can feel exactly how unfair Stiles thinks it is; he can feel it against his hip where they’re pressed together. He knows his body is answering.

  
“Sorry.”

  
“Liar. Okay, so you’re… gonna let my dad give you the shovel talk?” Derek shrugs as best he can under a gangly pile of human.

  
“You’re always talking about how excited you are for that part of dating,” he says casually, like he doesn’t listen to every word Stiles says, cataloguing it for future reference. The sudden grin on Stiles’ face is blinding.

  
(The grin on his boyfriend’s face.)

  
“Awesome,” Stiles says happily.

 

***

  
Round four gets smashed out the park before midnight.

  
They end up on their first date at 3am after a lengthy shower, Derek’s shirt dragging at Stiles’ neckline where it’s slightly too big. The waitress looks slightly concerned.

  
Derek has never been happier.

**Author's Note:**

> For the (mostly) platonic love of my life, aussiebee, who is dealing with a butt-tonne of crapola at the moment. I love you, you beautiful mad woman. Please accept this mildly sexy offering.
> 
> Also, this was originally posted from my phone. I’m in a tent in the middle of the Peak District... please forgive any imperfections.


End file.
